The Skin I'm In
by i-once-wrote-a-dream
Summary: Where is the part that screams it's me, this is me, I'm here? When does that elbow turn into Isak's elbow?


It isn't a thing until it becomes a thing. And by the time it becomes a thing, it's not. It's the thing. His thing.

Staring at his reflection isn't new to him. Following the lines and contours, looking for something, anything, that resembles him. Where is the part that screams it's me, this is me, I'm here? When does that elbow turn into Isak's elbow? He looks and stares and searches and still, he doesn't know who's looking back at him.

It's ok. For a while. When Even holds him. Traces along his ribs, while Isak watches. When their eyes meet, Isak thinks he's doing it right. He can see Even's fingers and feel the feather-light touch. Isak looks into his own eyes and sees happiness.

It doesn't last. Never lasts. He wants to tell someone. Maybe Jonas. They're closer now than they had ever been, but no. Jonas wouldn't understand. He'd be sympathetic, at most. Maybe he'd pity Isak, and god, he'd hate that. There's a growing part of him that wants to tell Even. He can't do that, though. Even already deals with so much, he doesn't deserve Isak putting all his weird body shit on top of it all. But it's so hard not to. When Even smiles like Isak is everything, it's on the tip of his tongue. Isak has to clench his teeth to keep it from spilling out. It happens over and over and over and there are so many moments where he just wants to LET GO. Let it go, Isak. Tell him, Isak. He loves you. Even knows you. Will know what to do. Just tell him, goddamnit.

He does it a year later. Three hundred and sixty-seven days, actually. Even's not wearing a shirt, and he really fucking should. Isak can see goosebumps along his back and arms. It's snowing.

"I don't like the way I look." No. That's not it, but maybe Even will get it.

Even turns, a disbelieving look on his face. "You don't think you're attractive?" Isak shakes his head and sits up.

"I don't know how to say it." Even, compassionate, beautiful, and thoughtful, drops his journal and climbs onto the bed.

"Just tell me what you're thinking." He can't do that either. Too sad, too small, too much.

"It's not really that important."

"Isak." His tone is firm. But still kind. So he talks.

"I don't like to look at myself. I don't feel like, I don't know, this doesn't feel like my body. I look in the mirror and I see a stranger looking back at me." Even opens and closes his mouth, maybe searching for the right words. Isak isn't sure there are any.

He reaches out to hold Isak's forearm. "This is Isak." He kisses it. "This is the skin and these are the bones that hold the soul that I'm so in love with. Enamoured by." He strokes up to grip Isak's biceps. "You are beautiful, Isak. I don't know how to fix this, I'm not that smart. But I'll remind you every day that I love you and everything that you means." Isak's crying silent tears. He doesn't know how to fix him either.

"I love you, Even. With everything I have."

And they don't fix it. But now Even knows and maybe that feels like a win. Even touches every part of him. Kisses every inch of skin and it doesn't feel so bad. Until.

"What about a tattoo?" It's stopped snowing and the days are much longer. Brighter.

"What about a tattoo?" Isak responds, smirking. He doesn't get it.

"I mean, what if you got a tattoo? Maybe, it's like, reclaiming your skin or something. Your art on your body?" Isak stops cutting the onion he's holding and stares at the cracked marble of their kitchen counter. A tattoo. He can see it. Black lines jarring against the pale skin on his torso. His torso. His skin. It's like he'd been born starving and now Even was offering him a bite of the most delicious something. His mouth waters. He wants to feel the sting, hear the buzz, see the art.

"I think. I want to do it."

They spend weeks looking at different artists in Oslo and pouring over post after post on Instagram. Isak goes back and forth between designs and wavers sometimes. "We don't have a lot saved up." Even quells his fears for the most part, and Isak goes back to starving, staring.

Isak gets it on his birthday. 21:21 because symbolism is important. He's 21 and there's a dandelion sprouting from the side of his wrist to about halfway up his forearm. A single flower. It's beautiful. He's looking the mirror at the tattoo shop, Even behind him but he's not seeing Even's fingers on him. He's seeing the red, puffy, tender skin around the flower. His skin. God, he feels it. And Isak wants to cry. He runs his own fingers up his hand and around his tattoo.

It isn't a thing until it becomes a thing. And by the time it becomes a thing, it's not. It's the thing. His thing.

Isak wants more. Gets more. Little stars. More flowers. His mother's name. Even's initials. His whole life mapped out onto his skin. Even, who loves them nearly as much as Isak, even gets a few himself. Isak gets looks sometimes. Not many 28-year-olds have a little daisy on their cheekbone. Not many teachers have tattoos littering their arms or their necks. But he does. And now he looks at himself and sees art. Sees Isak, sees happiness and sees everything he'd been looking for. There are days, he'll admit, where he wants to scratch it all off. But he'll look down and see a small EBN under his palm. Then turn his hand to see the swirling band on his finger that matches the one Even has on his. Follows the flowers up to a heart drawn carefully around a small 'Marianne.' A galaxy spans his shoulder, dipping into his collarbone. He's the sun and the stars and the earth and the entire history of himself. How could he destroy this? His skin is raised slightly where the ink is more heavily deposited. It's beautiful. Isak feels beautiful.

Isak spends a lot of time looking at his reflection. And whoever stares back at him, is happy.


End file.
